


Sunshine sweet in the morning

by elliceluella



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Multi, Sickfic, everything is good and nothing hurts, shameless shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 06:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8239307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliceluella/pseuds/elliceluella
Summary: Foggy’s eyes narrow. “This is payback isn’t it. Punishment for all my well-meaning mother henning.”
  
  Matt just shrugs and hums noncommittally. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”
  
  "I bet you wouldn't be so keen if I had a stomach flu."
  
  Matt wrinkles his nose but resolutely shakes his head. "Nope, you'd still be getting the same deal."
  
  Foggy flops an arm against the couch and groans. “Why,” He whines.
Maybe it's not a bad thing that for all of Foggy's excellent caring of others, he's not so great at looking after himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the "punishment/penance" square on my bingo card~

Nothing good ever comes from putting people on lists, but Foggy’s never been very good at listening to advice. Somewhere along the way, between pulling all nighters in the library and receiving strawberry rhubarb pies as payment, Matt’s worked his way to the top of almost every one of Foggy’s lists. He would’ve topped more lists if he took better care of himself, but maybe that’s what Foggy’s there for, as much as Matt will let him, anyway.

Perhaps he’s rubbed off on Matt too much.

(It’s a mutual thing; they’ve both influenced each other, but Matt always denies when Foggy claims Matt inspires him to be more of a hero helping the good folks of his neighborhood in his own capacity, insists that Foggy’s always had the biggest heart of anyone he’s ever known. Matt always says it with plenty of furrowed brows and poorly tampered passion, and Foggy smiles at that memory as he lends an old lady his coat and walks her back to her apartment building one rainy evening. He swears it keeps him warm.)

“Go home, Foggy.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re really not.”

“I’ll _be_ fine.”

“You said that days ago.”

“And countless lozenges ago,” Karen quips in, arching her eyebrows in that meaningful way that Foggy has found to be scarily effective in getting him, _and_ Matt to do almost anything she asked. She’s also been stirring honey into his tea, but the stubborn tickle in his throat turned into a nasty cold anyway. Oh well, Foggy supposes, these things happen.

Matt frowns and throws in that sad little mouth twist— the one Foggy’s gradually building resistance against after a careless, alcohol-laden confession. When that doesn't work (good job, Nelson), the _I’m on a mission_ stance gets deployed, complete with hands on hips. Foggy just rolls his eyes, tells Matt just as much, if only so that ridiculous stance deflates a smidge.

“I can hear the congestion when you try to breathe, it’s… _disturbing_.” Matt pauses, tilts his head slightly towards Foggy. “And now you’ve got a fever.” The sad mouth twist turns into a grim disapproving line.

“Eh,” Foggy waves him off. “I’ll take Tylenol or something later.”

“Go. Home. You wouldn’t want Karen catching your cold, would you?”

“Did you just guilt me into taking a sick day?” Foggy asks. Karen muffles her laugh behind a stack of papers.

Matt drops his arms. “...did it work?”

It absolutely doesn’t, but Foggy’s too tired to argue so he lets himself get unceremoniously shuffled out of the office and bossed around in his own apartment by Matt— who's been preening ever since they got back; _why is he even preening?_ — because he can get annoyingly persistent when he wants to. (And also because Foggy Nelson could never say no to a certain well-meaning list-topper, but that is an admission that’s going to take at least four beers to unearth.)

“Here,” Matt wraps a hand towel around a small bag of ice cubes and presses it to Foggy’s forehead. “Lean back and keep still.” Foggy makes a pathetic noise of protest but doesn’t move.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What if you catch my germs?” It’s meant to sound like challenge, not concern. Or at least, that’s what he’s trying to aim for. Pretty sure he nailed it. Hopefully.

“I’m a big boy,” Matt says, lazy smile spreading across his face. “I’ll manage.” 

“You say that now, but don’t think I’ve forgotten about law school, Mr Grouchy,” Foggy says, points an accusing finger at him. "Also, quit it with that face. It's extremely unnecessary." 

Matt flicks him lightly on the knee. He’s maddeningly jaunty today.

Foggy’s eyes narrow. “This is payback isn’t it. Punishment for all my well-meaning mother henning.”

Matt just shrugs and hums noncommittally. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

"I bet you wouldn't be so keen if I had a stomach flu."

Matt wrinkles his nose but resolutely shakes his head. "Nope, you'd still be getting the same deal."

Foggy flops an arm against the couch and groans. “Why,” He whines. He would’ve kicked his legs in a fuss if he didn’t think that was going too far.

“Because you suck at taking care of yourself,” Matt says.

“No I don’t.” Foggy pauses. “Not all the time, anyway.”

“Well, right now you do.”

“We have work to do, Matthew. Work I could have done perfectly well back at the office.”

“Work you can do perfectly well once you get better,” Matt placidly replies, and puts on that face every time he knows he’s going to win an argument.

“Hmph.” Foggy shifts the makeshift ice pack to his thigh and makes to reach for the box of tissues. Matt hands it to him. “Basic caretaking 101,” he says after blowing his nose. “Never argue with the patient.”

“Oh, boo,” Matt says, lightly, and pats Foggy’s elbow.

Foggy sulks, uses his one free pass at petulance to say “You’re awful and I hate you”, then sticks out his tongue for good measure.

“I love you too,” Matt says, and ugh. Something needs to be done about that smug grin. 

*

Matt makes mildly disapproving noises while going through Foggy’s kitchen but he whips up grilled cheese sandwiches and fills a flask with a lemon-ginger brew.

“Good?”

Foggy hates that he doesn’t quite manage not to inhale the sandwiches almost as much as the fact that Matt already knows all of this but just wants to hear him say it anyway. He stubbornly turns towards the window. Can't let the guy’s head get too big, between all the recent heroics and the fan club he's been gathering lately.

But Matt smirks anyway, slow and— why does it always have to look so dangerous? He pats Foggy’s head as he stands and collects their empty plates. “Attaboy,” he says, the jerk.

Foggy makes a quick call to Karen while Matt’s doing the dishes, half hoping to find an excuse to return to the office. No such luck.

“Don’t you start,” Foggy warns, leveling a finger in Matt’s direction. Matt raises both hands, barely apologetic glee unrestrained.

*

“Hey,” Foggy says around a yawn a little later, after he watches every single pillow and cushion in his apartment get fluffed to Matt’s meticulous expectations because _someone_ had insisted doing something, _anything,_ and Foggy had vetoed having his socks and underwear washed. He doesn’t want to dwell on why that was even offered in the first place. The Tylenol’s expediting his post-lunch fatigue, mellowing him out.

“Go back to work, will you? Bring home the bacon, fry it in the pan, never let me forget that you're the man...so on and so forth. I’ll call if I need anything.”

“As long as you promise not to quote any more lyrics. Or die.”

Matt full out laughs when Foggy lazily lobs a pillow at his head.

“Be good,” he says, and then slinks out the door.

*

Matt comes back in the evening with armfuls of groceries.

“I’m making chicken noodle soup for dinner,” he announces as he rolls his sleeves up. “Also making sure your fridge is no longer woefully inadequate.”

“Says the man who once had nothing but an apple in his.”

Matt frowns. Foggy counts the bags on his counter. Nine. Nine bags. “Please tell me you left enough items at the store for the rest of the neighbors,” Foggy sighs.

“Eh,” Matt says, voice a little muffled behind the fridge door. There’s the occasional crinkle of plastic and light clatter of containers as he tries to tetris everything he bought onto the shelves. It’s a stretch but if there are snacks in there he hopes at least one of them is a bag of Cheetos and not all apple chips, or something.

Matt’s humming something to himself, soft enough that Foggy can’t make out the tune. What’s loud enough is the realization that Foggy’s never seen Matt like this before, smile stretching just a little wider, his humming faintly wobblier every time Foggy cuts a glance at him.

Foggy maybe does it a few more times, because it’s fun having Matt in such a good mood. It’s warmly foreign.

“You like this, don’t you?” Foggy finally asks when Matt’s dicing carrots and celery, the smell of sweet onions and chicken stock just barely registering through his blocked nose, which has been starting to clear.

Matt slips on a mildly confused smile, says “Cooking? Yeah, it’s pretty therapeutic,” and then quickly looks down again.

Well then.

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” Foggy says, tries his hardest to keep the grin from curling into his voice. Who knows, Matt’s probably able to pick out things like that.

“No, I absolutely do not,” Matt fumbles, a little flustered, the liar, and turns the slightest shade of pink. Then the vegetables get diced faster and oh, this is excellent. Foggy would cackle if he could.

“Your thermos better be empty. You know that brew is good for you,” Matt mutters, and Foggy would take pity on that mangled attempt at changing the subject if not for the sudden warmth in his chest.

“Oh Matty.” Foggy shuffles up and hugs Matt from behind, who stiffens before relaxing into the embrace.

“Would it be too much if I requested for chicken soup when I catch your cold?” Matt asks, before helpfully adding, “You don’t have to make it from scratch, it could be store-bought.” He pats Foggy’s arm gently.

“Didn’t someone say he was a big boy earlier?” Foggy prods Matt lightly in the stomach when he shrugs. “Hush and enjoy your germy embrace, big boy.”

*

After dinner (Foggy doesn’t try to hide how good it is anymore, even asks for a second helping to Matt’s delight), Matt gets restless in his seat and excuses himself to the kitchen when he gets called out on it.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” is all he says.

“You walked all the way there for me?” Foggy asks, staring at Matt’s beatific smile and then back down at his surprise. It’s his favorite cheesecake, the one he only gets on special occasions because it’s out of the way and not exactly cheap.

Matt just smiles. “Who else would I do it for?”

Foggy swears he doesn’t mean to, but his heart’s probably thumping out soaring overtures of gratitude because Matt’s smile suddenly goes very, very soft at its edges.

“Don’t make me get all sappy on you, Murdock,” Foggy says gruffly, face warm. He gets another fork, splits the cheesecake in half and only takes his first bite after Matt takes his, presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth until the sweetness soothes the flush in his cheeks.

“I wouldn’t mind getting ill more often,” Foggy says, after there’s not so much as a crumb on his plate and his fork’s been licked clean. “Turns out I’m not totally opposed to punishment like this.”

“Don’t you dare,” Matt says, pouring them both mugs of tea.

They make their way to the couch, and Foggy pops Jurassic Park into the player. It’s become their go-to comfort media, well-worn like an old sweater for riding out sick days or the tail end of hangovers. Foggy had to come up with increasingly ridiculous descriptions by their second year of rooming together because Matt was starting to memorize Foggy’s narration.

Soon Foggy loses count of his yawns and misses snippets of the movie. Matt helps him scootch down the couch so that his head’s pillowed in a cushion over Matt’s lap.

Eventually Matt’s fingers find their way to Foggy’s hair, absently twining locks around his fingers, combing them out and doing it all over again. Foggy swears he’s never cutting his hair short, and then his eyes drift close.

*

Foggy wakes and gazes up to find an open-mouthed Matt, snoring lightly. He stirs at Foggy’s huff of laughter, sleepy smile in tow as he rubs his eyes. Foggy sits up and stretches.

“You okay?” Matt asks.

“Yeah.” Foggy yawns, a click in his jaw. “What time is it?” He sounds a little croaky.

Matt checks his watch. “Just after eleven.” He gets up and heads to the kitchen.

“It's Friday night. Shouldn’t you be bounding over rooftops or something right now?”

“I asked Luke to cover for me,” Matt says after he hands Foggy a glass of water, and Foggy must make a _something_ that he’s not aware of, because Matt looks puzzled. “What is it?”

“You know I’m always glad when you choose to stay in, but you don’t have to do that for me. At least, not for a cold or fever.” Foggy says, gives in to his sleep-soft impulses and affectionately pats Matt’s face.

“...but I want to,” Matt pouts. _Pouts_ , like the time he refused to take a nap and Foggy laughed so hard because he eventually fell asleep on his textbook and woke up with braille imprints on one side of his face. Foggy shouldn’t be so delighted at this, but he laps it all up because he’s still groggy from the meds and sleep and Matt’s warmth. “And you were snuffling in your sleep, it was...cute.” It's adorable, the way Matt’s voice goes small and bashful at the end.

“Okay.” Foggy smiles. He’d press it into Matt’s shoulder if Matt wasn’t already matching his with a goofy one.

For all that Matt is bony and chiseled angles, he’s incredibly cuddly and comfortable. Everything’s in a bubble of Safe and Content and Foggy has every intention of staying in it for as long as possible. “Thanks for looking after me, Matty,” Foggy says, moves to burrow back into that cozy nest of warm limbs and chest, but Matt stops him.

“You’re gonna get a crick in your neck if you stay here all night,” He explains, then nods towards the bed.

“Okay, but you’re coming with. You’re warm.”

“What happened to all that concern about contaminating me with your germs?” There’s only fond softness in Matt’s tease, no playful bite. Foggy grins.

“What concern?”

“I knew it. You only liked me for my body.”

“Yeah, that’s mostly it,” Foggy chuckles. They both shuffle out of the living room and Foggy flops into bed, immediately curling into Matt’s warmth. He yawns into Matt’s shoulder. “Night night, Matty.”

Matt grunts softly, pulls the blanket tighter over the both of them. “Night, Foggy.”

*

Foggy laughs at the mop of hair poking out over the top of his covers the next morning.

“Well someone’s feeling better,” Matt mumbles, sleepily, but Foggy ignores him and seizes the opportunity to happily pat Matt’s hair in all its soft fluffiness, both of them knowing he would never let Foggy do that if he was more awake. There’s probably a better way to describe Matt’s hair but no coffee, no thinking. Matt makes a sleepy noise suspiciously close to a whine.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Foggy says, doesn’t care if the big dumb grin on his face seeps into his voice, which is starting to sound normal again now that he’s breathing easier. It’s probably thanks to the rest and meds and Matt’s food, but Foggy’s pretty sure it’s also just Matt. Seeing and tasting and _feeling_ just how much he means to Matt? It’s almost too much, in a good way.

“Mm.” Matt rolls over towards Foggy and drapes his arm over Foggy’s side. “Less talk, more sleep,” he murmurs.

“But breakfast.”

“Already got it covered,” Matt says. Right, the nine bags from yesterday. Foggy gets pulled even closer until he’s essentially swaddled in Matt.

“Okay, okay. Shutting up now,” he says, laughing, and snuggles up against Matt’s chest. “Thank you.” Foggy doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t know how. Sometimes it’s nice that he doesn’t have to.

Matt makes an appreciative noise, low and deep, and it rumbles through Foggy. Yeah, they could afford to stay like this a little longer. Knowing Matt, he’s probably got more than breakfast covered. So Foggy smiles, relaxes under the comfortable weight of Matt’s arms, and drifts off until one of their stomachs protest.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://ellicelluella.tumblr.com/) :D


End file.
